Page 25 of Fated to the Drakarn Commander (Drakarn Mates 4)

"I'm okay," I said. The words felt stupid. Useless. Untrue.

"No." A shudder rippled through him. Visible. His wings trembled. "Not okay. None of this … is okay."

Before I could process that, could even think, he turned. Released me abruptly. Created distance. A chasm opening between us. Protecting me? Or himself?

"We should return," he said, voice clipped. Controlled again. But the current underneath … it was volatile. Barely contained. Dangerous.

I should have nodded. Said nothing. Let the distance stand. Maintained the lie—protection, duty, alliance. Nothing more.

Instead, I stepped forward. Closed the gap. "Khorlar."

His head snapped around. Eyes blazing—pure gold fire. Pupils contracted to sharp vertical slits. His focus absolute. Terrifying.

"What aren't you telling me?" My voice was steadier than I felt. A reckless challenge. "About the Ignarath. About me. About … this." I gestured vaguely at the charged air between us, thick with unspoken things.

He sucked in a harsh breath. His chest rose, fell. Was he steadying himself? Or preparing? "You don't understand." Rough. Bitten off. Like the words physically hurt him. "You can't understand."

"Try me." A dare. A stupid, stupid dare.

A mistake.

He moved. That impossible speed again—stone to liquid fire in the space between heartbeats. His hands clamped onto my shoulders. Not rough. Not exactly. But … inevitable. Decisive. Nowhere to run.

"It's not protection," he admitted, the words torn raw from somewhere deep. Primal. "Notjustprotection."

I wanted to flinch back. My survival instincts screamed at me tomove. But my feet were bolted to the stone. My body—traitor—held fast. Heart trying to hammer its way out of my ribs.

"What then?" A whisper. Barely audible.

His hands slid. Slow torture. One cupped the side of my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone—rough heat. The other back to my waist, drawing me closer. Inch by agonizing inch. Not forcing. Asking. Demanding. Claws carefully, pointedly retracted. Just warm, hard palm against the thin fabric of my shirt. Then bare skin.

"This," he growled. Low in his throat.

And his mouth crashed down on mine.

Fire. Nothing but fire. Consuming. Absolute.

Shock first—the alienness of it. Lips firmer than human, impossibly hot. A scaled texture at the edges. His taste—wild, sharp, elemental heat, utterly male—exploding through my senses. My hands flew up to his chest—to push him away? To cling on? Didn't know. Didn't matter.

Then instinct surged. Older than reason. Deeper than fear.

I kissed him back.

A sound ripped from his chest—a growl, a groan. Hunger. Victory. Relief. His hand tightened at my waist, hauling me flush against his furnace heat. Body to body. An inferno. His other hand tangled in my short hair, rough scales scraping my scalp, angling my head. Deepening the kiss. Demanding. Taking.

And I gave. God help me, I gave it all.

My fingers clenched, digging into the hard scales of his chest. Trying to find purchase in the hurricane. I found the frantic thunder of his heartbeat beneath. Matching mine. Beat for desperate beat.

His tongue—hot, surprisingly soft but with a textured roughness—traced the seam of my lips. Asking. A question buried in the certainty. I parted for him. Let him in.

The taste of him—scorched spice, primal heat, pure male—seared through me like lightning. Obliterated thought. Caution. Sanity. Left only raw, achingneed. The slick glide of his tongue tangled with mine. The careful, terrifying edge of fang brushed my lower lip—sensation blurring pain and pleasure. Control. Even now, that terrifying control.

A sound tore from someone’s throat—desperate, broken, needy. Oh god. Me. It was me. Shame flared—hot, brief—then vanished, swallowed by the firestorm coiling low in my belly, burning through every vein.

His hand slid under my shirt hem. Scalding palm flat against the bare skin of my back. Tracing my spine. Gentle. Deliberate. Each brush of his fingers a brand. A claim. Making me his.

I arched into it. Into him. Pressed closer. Needed closer. That sound again—mine? His? I didn't know. Didn't care.

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